


Slow

by hoisinn



Category: Othello - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works, The Tempest - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Blood (only bit at the beginning), F/M, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Moving On, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Reincarnation, Songfic, Unresolved Emotional Tension, on desdemonas part at least (kinda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 02:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16693729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoisinn/pseuds/hoisinn
Summary: Othello awakens on a beach. Lost, alone, regretful.





	Slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bloopydoo (UNDERTALESIN)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UNDERTALESIN/gifts).



> I cannot believe the sheer lack of Othello-centric fics in this fandom that aren’t about him and Iago getting it on. Good lord.  
> This is a small part of an AU I’m working on with my friend, to be released soon after How Silent Is This Town is finished. I would’ve refrained from posting this until then, but. I have no impulse control.  
> Anyways, happy birthday Bloopydoo!! Hope you enjoy and have a great time juggling this angsty shitshow ;)))
> 
> You can find the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UcQ06SEmY8s  
> PLEASE LISTEN TO IT IT'S SO PRETTY

Blood seeps through Othello’s fingers, spreading deep crimson from the wound in his gut. The dagger slips from his fingers and onto the bed, staining the sheets with agony and pain. His vision blurs. Is he crying?

 

**_If I had an audience, I'd cover my face._ **

 

Desdemona is pale in death, angry pink bruises circling her neck. Her body is still warm, cheeks still flushed red, tear tracks still damp. Othello wipes them away, as soft as he can. He trembles with the effort of staying alive. People are shouting behind him, voices indistinguishable through the slow numbness overtaking him, fading into an amalgamation of shock and sorrow. His arms give out, unable to hold his weight any longer, and he collapses face-down onto the bed.

 

**_Lock away myself in a lonesome place._ **

 

Desdemona’s nightdress is tainted with blood. Othello chokes back a sob as he stares into her lifeless eyes, sight distorted by tears, praying to whatever god was out there that this was all just a dream- that he never went to Cyprus, that he never spoke to Iago, that he never murdered his wife.

_“Your wife, my lord. Your true and honest wife.”_

That he’d trusted Desdemona as much as he believed he did.

But… no. It could not be, and Othello knows that.

He thinks he whispers something in the last seconds of his life- something about kissing Desdemona. Othello can’t remember.

The world is silent.

 

**_If I'd had a premonition of how this would be_ **

 

Warmth. That’s all he can feel- relentless heat beating down on his back and legs.

But also, coldness. Covering his feet in water, only to wash away seconds later, a temporary relief from the sun.

… The sun? Othello can’t see anything. It’s cold and warm and dark.

He opens his eyes, and grainy whiteness fills the edges of his vision. He must be lying on his stomach.

 

**_I would still have begged and took you home with me._ **

 

Othello is momentarily blinded when he turns over on his side, eyes involuntarily squinting in the brightness. Green spots swim in his eyes. It hurts.

White slowly gives way to beige and blue. Is that… sand?

He tries to move his hand, to get a better grasp (literally and figuratively) on his surroundings. Yes, it is sand, rough underneath the back of his fingers.

Where in the world _is_ he?

 

**_Still have done it all, done it hopelessly_ **

 

Othello gathers he is lying on a beach of some sort. The beige is sand, and the blue is the sky, spreading further than his vision reaches. He can see some brown and green too, those must be shrubs. Or trees.

An indefinite amount of time passes where he just stays still, trying to accumulate enough energy to move. He feels not tired, but distant. Like he’s controlling someone else’s body, not his own.

Othello sits up after a few more minutes. His vision swims as blood drains from his head, and he feels like he’s about to faint.

 

**_And buried myself where no eye could see._ **

 

Temporary dizziness gives way to the expanse of the ocean. There is no horizon that Othello can make out, the blue of the sky reflected on the water until they became one. He is suddenly aware of birdsong behind him, piercing the island’s stillness.

Othello slowly stands up, looks around.

There is no-one to in sight.

 

**_Well I lost my heart when my back was turned, if you see it could you let me know?_ **

 

Days pass.

Othello finds shelter in an abandoned tent, makes firewood out of the upturned canoe near it. The island is plentiful in fruit, and Othello can hunt, but he misses life before death.

He misses the grandeur of Venice. He misses the architecture and the commerce and the military. He misses his friends in the army. He misses his position. He misses the person he used to be.

 

**_And if you've got to leave me, baby, won't you do it slow?_ **

 

He misses Desdemona the most.

When he first realised he was actually _dead_ , Othello begged for penance, begged that he could do something- _anything_ to pay for his sins. Was this hell? Was this purgatory?

Because something tells him it isn’t heaven, no matter how justified he felt, snaking his fingers around Desdemona’s neck and _squeezing_. No matter how honourable his death seemed. No matter how much he pleaded for forgiveness in the last minutes of his life.

Desdemona would never come back to him.

 

**_If I had a crystal ball, I still wouldn't see it all._ **

 

Mostly because he was trapped on this godforsaken island, but also…

Othello knows Desdemona is in hell, and it’s tearing him apart from the inside. Cliche, he knows, but every step he takes fills him with uncontrollable regret. He shouldn’t have listened to Iago. He should have trusted Emilia. He should have loved Desdemona.

There’s nothing he can do now, Othello realises.

 

**_I swear I didn't do it just to make you crawl_ **

 

His nights are filled with horrible fantasies and dreams that he wishes didn’t ring true, but Othello knows well enough that he _would_ have righteously killed Desdemona if she was cuckolding him, that he’s too proud to say sorry.

Her eyes stare, unblinking, into his own when he falls asleep. Pleading for her life.

Othello murders her again and again, and he doesn’t know himself well enough to learn how to stop.

 

**_And if I had a audience, I'd ask them to leave._ **

 

Othello tells himself stories. Tales of enslavement and redemption. Of war and glory. He makes himself remember the details of his past, like the colour of Indian spices, or the number of scars a pirate had, or the gleam of a soldier’s armour. It’s a distraction from this new world. His voice fills the island, deep and expressive, and Othello can focus on that instead of everything else.

He can imagine himself in the barracks during a time of conflict, surrounded by friends and torchlight, expressions distorted by shadows, eyes glinting in the dark. The audience gratifies him, but the satisfaction is fleeting. He’s too far distanced from Venice. It’s not what he wants, or needs.

 

**_How can I give them what I can't receive?_ **

 

Othello longs for intimacy. Desdemona’s company. The little reactions she’d give in response to a particularly moving story, her questions, her love, her devotion.

Every time he traverses into an undiscovered section of the island, he half expects Desdemona to be lying there, asleep. She’d wake up at his presence, he’d apologise, and eventually, slowly, she’d forgive him. But he can’t get rid of the underlying suspicion that no, she wouldn’t understand his actions, and that she would hate to see him again.

 

**_How can I pray when I just don't believe?_ **

 

One day, Othello hears voices. He’s not going mad. He _can’t_ go mad here. There’s no closure for him, nothing for him to be remembered by. ...No, the voices are real- they’re on this island, and Othello is moving towards them. They that of two women- one sounds older than the other. Both slightly familiar.

Does he know them? Do they know him? Is he not alone after all?

He can see flashes of movement within the leaves now, sunlight shining off brown hair and white clothes. The younger laughs, and Othello’s heart skips a beat- it can’t be, she’s dead, they’re all dead, but he gets to a point where he can see her-

 

**_And sometimes it takes all your heart just to breathe._ **

 

The woman turns, and Othello falls to his knees.

 

**_Well I lost my heart when my back was turned, if you see it could you let me know?_ **

 

Desdemona’s hair is long and tied into tangled braids, skin glowing, dress tattered at the edges. Her eyes have a spark previously unbeknownst to her or anyone, kindled by adventure and freedom. Othello can see the spark almost die then they lock eyes.

She stares through him, not quite registering his form, his appearance, his reality.

“O…”, she whispers. Eyes wide, tongue tied.

“Othello?”

Her voice is almost inaudible amidst his own inner cacophony.

“Des… Desdemona…”

 

**_And if you've got to leave me, baby, won't you do it slow?_ **

 

Othello’s got tears running down his cheeks, streaking his face with wetness and penitence. He crumples further in on himself- he’s not her equal, never was, never will be, and when Desdemona takes a step back, he shatters a little further.

“Please…”, he starts. His voice cracks. Tears dry up in the sand below him.

 

**_There's nothing I wouldn't give in this whole world to be the man you met long ago._ **

 

Please what? Please forgive him? Please grant him mercy and understanding? Please forget everything- Brabantio, Cyprus, Iago, and carry on as if nothing happened?

“Desdemona, please, I-I’m…”

Sorry, Othello wants to say. But the words catch in his throat, hidden from the world. Hidden from Desdemona. There are no stories of sorrow to tell now, no pity given, no love reciprocated. Just tears, disgust, and silence.

 

**_And if you've got to leave me, baby, won't you do it slow?_ **

 

Othello can’t remember if Desdemona actually said anything to him, but he can remember Emilia dragging her away, far away, and berating him, subduing him into speechlessness. He knows he’s too trusting. He knows he’s self-righteous. He knows he’s crippled with jealousy and insecurity, and that he doesn’t deserve any part of his former wife.

_“The sweetest innocent that ever did lift up eye”._

Emilia leaves him weeping silent tears, praying for absolution from Desdemona, just to hear her voice again. Just for her to trust again.

 

**_If you've got to leave me, baby, won't you do it slow?_ **

 

Desdemona’s crying now. Her sobs fill the island with pent-up fear and uncertainty, and it _kills_ Othello to know that he’s the one responsible for this.

Night arrives. He can’t bring himself to leave the camp, no matter how despised he feels he is. The island grows quiet and dark, illuminated only by dying campfire and moonlight. He almost falls asleep until a slit of brightness shines upon him, nudging him awake.

It’s coming from Desdemona’s and Emilia’s hut. Their door has cracked open, and the former stands anxious at the window. Inviting him into her life again?

 

**_Don't let me see, don't linger at my door._ **

 

No.

They’re farther apart than they’ve ever been. Physically, Othello’s living in the same camp as her, eating the same foods, resting almost as close to each other as they did in marriage.

Emotionally, mentally, Othello feels a world away.

The pressure builds, unnoted and avoided by all. He and Desdemona wordlessly agree to stay out of each other’s sight for an indefinite amount of time. Just until they could accept things again.

 

**_Tell me again, was it to you I swore_ **

 

Half of him expects Desdemona to forgive him, to see things from his point of view, to understand why he did the things he did. The other half berates himself for the mere thought of pardon, calls him a monster, a cold-hearted killer, someone not worthy of even living when Desdemona is. Othello finds himself stuck in the middle, tossing and turning in blind confusion.

 

**_That no one would play with your heart anymore?_ **

 

What scares him the most is the possibility of losing touch with her. She’d forgive him, then they’d have closure. They wouldn’t have to interact again. She’d run away, and Othello would never find her again.

He would never get a second chance.

 

**_Well I lost my heart when my back was turned, if you see it could you let me know?_ **

 

More days pass, then weeks. Venice is but a dream now, a fantastical memory of stability and belonging. This island is all Othello knows- pale sand and dry bushes sandwiched between infinite expanses of sky and sea. Emilia outright ignores him, and Desdemona… is happier without him.

 

**_And if you've got to leave me, baby, won't you do it slow?_ **

 

At the two month mark, the camp grows. Two young lovers, one of royal blood, one that almost seems to be the closest thing to a native of the island until Othello glimpses a flash of the a Neapolitan emblem on a chain around her neck. Were they lost- dead- too?

Desdemona converses with them, and no, they’re both still alive. The mystery thickens, and Othello longs to talk with even _one_ of them, he doesn’t even want answers- just to start over again, if nothing else.

To start over with someone who doesn’t know his history, to tell his stories to, to feel awe and pity and everything Desdemona gave him before Cyprus.

Someone to _replace_ her in his life, he realises.

 

**_If you've got to leave me, baby, won't you do it slow?_ **

 

She’s further away than ever now, exchanging her own stories with the two strangers- Miranda and Ferdinand, as he overhears. It’s like she’s moved on. Forgotten their time together. Or at least, pushed the issue deep down enough that she wouldn’t have to confront it again.

Strangely enough, he hates it. He _needs_ to talk with her. She can’t just… _leave_ him like that, she can’t just escape! He _murdered_ her! She should be screaming, sobbing, fighting back, _anything_.

 

**_If you've got to leave me, baby, won't you do it slow?_ **

 

Desdemona is falling in love again. Ferdinand, Miranda, Othello can’t tell. Both?

He feels sick at the thought. He can’t be forgotten. She can’t abandon him.

Othello _needs_ her.

 

**_If you've got to leave me, baby, won't you do it slow?_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> I debated with the possibility of killing Othello off at the end for a long time, but eventually decided against it because, honestly, it seemed like a cheap ploy to end this story. He doesn’t die in the AU anyways, so.  
> Talking about the AU, there’s some stuff in this that might not make sense without context. The fellas from The Tempest, for example. But there’s no explanation for now, haha, you’ll just have to wait and see.


End file.
